This is something that I heard, As the fluting of a bird, On a certain drowsy day, When my pipe was under way.
I was weary of the town, And the going up and down; Sick of streets and sick of noise,— And I pined for Pagan joys.
Daphne, here it is July! Just the month, my love, to fly To a sylvan solitude In the green and ancient wood.
We will trip it as we go On the neo-Pagan toe, Sunny days and starry nights, Savoring the wild delights
Of a turbulent desire That may set the wood on fire. We will play at hunt-the-fawn, In the neo-Dorian dawn.
You will scamper through the brake, And I'll follow in your wake — As the young Apollo ran In the piping days of Pan.
You'll escape me, without doubt, For I'm just a trifle stout; But, when I have lagged behind, Waiting for my second wynde,
From some pretty hiding-place Will emerge your laughing face; I shall glimpse your eyes of blue, Hear your merry “Peek-a-boo!”
What to wear? The Pagan plan Contemplates a coat of tan; But I fear we shall require Just a trifle more attire.
Bushes scratch and brambles sting; Insect myriads are a-wing;— Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm When the woodland air is warm.
( MEM: To take, when we elope, Tanglewood Mosquito Dope. ) Do you like the picture, dear? Have you aught of doubt or fear?
Have you any criticism Of my neo-Paganism? If not, dearie, let us fly To that passion-ripening sky,
Where our souls may have their fling, And our every care take wing. So the bird song fluted by, Like a vagrant summer sigh —
Came, and passed, and was no more; And my pleasant dream was o'er. For arose the wraith of Doubt; And I knew my pipe was out.
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